


The sky isn’t black anymore

by aralias



Series: Hang the Moon [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, First Time, M/M, One of My Favorites, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Watford Eighth Year, Watford Seventh Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: The wedding wasn’t the end. The happily ever after. It definitely wasn’t for Baz, who is still riddled with the same questions and insecurities as before, even though he got what he wanted. (Sequel to 'Hang the Moon'.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Hang the Moon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546543
Comments: 70
Kudos: 468





	The sky isn’t black anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SHARKMARTINI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHARKMARTINI/gifts), [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu/gifts).

> I'm pretty sure I started writing this because of a Tumblr post about who tops who, and I agreed that it didn't matter but also that Baz wanted this from Simon. Sharkmartini suggested in the nicest possible way that I should put my money where my mouth was. Hence, a dedication is in order. 
> 
> Then I started writing it - and what had been intended as pure pornography turned into the discovery that the ending of 'Hang the Moon' really wasn't good enough for Baz, who was still quite upset about everything. 
> 
> It's also for Giishu, of course, for spending so much time talking to me about it. And for everyone else who told me they were looking forward to it! Thank you. 
> 
> It's not the fic I expected to write. Enjoy.
> 
> (You can read it without reading [Hang the Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797265/chapters/49428773), but since it's mostly about feelings rather than porn, I wouldn't.)

> _“Simon Snow hung the moon,” he whispers. And right at my arm’s highest point, I feel the sky sort of catch on the coin in my hand, like a magnet._
> 
> _I let go._
> 
> _And suddenly the sky isn’t black anymore. It’s a rich dark blue, lit by the full moon - hanging like a shiny silver coin above us - and speckled with stars amidst deep-grey clouds. I feel my jaw drop._
> 
> Hang the Moon, Chapter 4

I’m lying on my stomach in the dark – alone – trying to get myself off on my own fingers because Simon Snow is a coward.

No. I know that’s not fair.

Simon Snow is many things (insufferable; insufferably handsome _and_ powerful) but he isn’t a coward. He’s just new to this. To me; to being gay. (_Is _he gay? I know he likes kissing me, but it’s probably not that different to kissing a woman. We haven’t talked about any of that yet. Or really, anything.) I also completely understand why he doesn’t want to upset my family under my father’s roof. It’s because he wants to stay alive. But I thought he might be a little more adventurous tonight – I thought he might _want _something else – since it _is _our wedding night.

Because somehow – through a strange and magickal turn of events I still don’t entirely understand – Simon Snow is also my husband.

No, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, either.

_“You should come in,” _I told him in the corridor between our two rooms.

We were kissing. We _had _been kissing for almost the whole evening in between excruciating small talk with my relatives. But it’s one thing to kiss your new husband in front of marquees full of people (most of them conservative), and quite another to be kissing him in a deserted corridor while he presses you up against the door of your bedroom in the middle of the night.

Both of my hands were on Simon’s arse (because one hand would be an affront to how perfect that arse is) and I was using that grip to pull his hips into me. At that point, my wedding night was going almost exactly as planned.

_“I want to,” _he breathed – and for a moment, I really thought that was it. That he was going to. That _we _were going to.

_“Good. I want you to, as well.”_

_“I just – I don’t think I can. Your family—”_

_“It’s fine. We’re married now.” _

I’d told him my family would mind, earlier, which they would have done. But things are different now. Simon and I are actually married. We’ve bound our bloodlines together, **for better for worse **(mainly worse, I expect)**.** We’re official. Legitimate. Even my father wouldn’t have objected to us sharing a room. (Well, he might have done, but I would have ignored him.) If I’d been around during the day, I would have moved all Simon’s things into my room already. I’d be calling it _our _room.

I let go of him to feel for the doorknob and let the door swing open behind me.

_“Deflower me, husband.”_

It was the wrong thing to say. For any number of reasons. (I admit, I wasn’t entirely sober.) Hideously embarrassing in retrospect. Because he didn’t.

I felt him pulling away before I could grab him.

_“Baz, they already hate me.” _

Completely true, unfortunately. I thought Simon had been going down well (given everything, anyway). And then he drove his fist into my face and almost outed me as a vampire in front of most of the Coven. Now my father’s back to his most unpleasant scowl whenever Simon’s in the same room. And even Fiona pulled me aside during the afternoon to remind me that I’m only bound to Simon until _death. _(And that, even though our families can’t actively hurt one-another, she was certain something could be arranged.)

None of them are happy for me, although they all know I’m in love with him.

It’s something I’ll have to deal with later. Worrying, but nothing like as worrying as the look on Simon’s face as he backed away from me.

_“And I’m not sure I can— I’m not even sure what deflowering is...”_

_“You don’t have to sleep with me,” _I said quickly, even though I _had_ hoped he would sleep with me. _“You could just sleep with me. In my bed.”_

I would have accepted that. I would have been delighted. Even though I was half hard already, and it felt like perhaps he was as well, I would have been happy. Just to hold him. To be held.

But it was too late, by then. I’d already frightened him off. 

_“Soon, yeah?” _he said; and he kissed me again until I was willing to agree with him. Then he left for his own room.

That was half an hour ago.

I’ve worked three fingers inside myself now. Because – although I’ve never seen it – I imagine Simon has a thick cock. (To match his thick head.) (Which isn’t fair either. He isn’t thick, not really. He just doesn’t like school as much as I do. But it’s been a hard – mm, I like that – _hard _day. And I’m humiliated, which always makes me particularly vicious. And I’m angry with Simon. Almost as angry as I am infatuated with him.)

I’ve got my eyes closed so I can better imagine what I actually wanted from tonight.

Simon above me, on top of me, still wearing most of the suit that I bought him yesterday because he was too desperate for me to get undressed properly. It’s the same reason I’m still in my jacket, even though I liked the idea of him ripping it off me. I’m pressing myself into the mattress as he fucks me, remembering to be careful of my nose (it still hurts, hours – and spells – later). Resting my forehead against my free arm, my wedding ring cold against my face. Rubbing my damp cock against the sheets.

It’s deep and hard, the fucking. (Or at least, I’m imagining it is. My fingers are long, but not long enough and the angle is shit.) Vigorous. Simon Snow is very vigorous, and he’s so determined – he wants me to really feel how much he wants me. To feel it hours later. He wants me to know I’m his. (I am, I _am _– he can do what he likes with me.) (_Even abandon me on our wedding night, _a nasty part of my brain points out; I ignore it.) The bed springs are creaking under my hips. If Simon’s really unlucky, someone will hear me and assume that he came to screw me even though he stayed away. 

I’ll lie, if anyone asks me – Simon will just have to suffer the consequences. I’ll tell them he fucked my brains out.

Crowley, I wish he _was_.

I groan as I press my fingers back into myself, imagining Simon’s jaw dropping at the sound. I tilt my head to side and imagine him kissing me.

Simon’s good at kissing. He’s bold. And he was somehow able to work out what I liked and what I didn’t almost before I did. He listens, I think. To the breathy sounds I made when he got it right. He probably felt me shuddering.

I’m shuddering now, although it’s not the same. Even with my brain trying to fill in the gaps. But it’s better than other times I’ve tried this, other times I’ve wanked over Simon Snow (too many, unfortunately), because I’ve come closer now to making this a reality. I have more information – about what it feels like to kiss him. What it would feel like if he was really here, if he was actually lying on top of me.

It happened yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago. It was dark and wet. The moon – Simon’s moon, the moon I gave him – shone down on us, and Simon Snow kissed me as though we’d never been enemies. He wasn’t even wearing his cross (I don’t want to think about why not), so there was nothing to make me hold back. He said he wanted me and he kissed me for hours. He covered me with his body, like he was protecting me. He lay under a shield of our magic, like I was protecting him.

He was heavier than I expected. And warmer. (So warm. Like the sun – it’s why I gave him the moon. Because they matched.) If he was here, now, I might be struggling to breathe under the weight of him. Gasping.

Simon Snow. (I’m whimpering as I slam my fingers into myself.) _Simon_. Simon Snow. I’d give you the air from my body in exchange for the heat of yours. I’d let you push your magic into me along with your cock. I’d demand it.

I’m cresting towards orgasm. Driven into it by Simon’s relentlessness, his warmth, his desire for me. Last night he kissed me until I felt his hand wandering up my thigh and promptly lost control of our magic. I can only imagine what would have happened if I’d been able to hold onto it. Where his hand would have gone next.

I have a good imagination though. I can imagine it. All of it.

_Fuck._

This isn’t what I thought I’d get from this evening, but it’s enough for now. He _is _mine. He’s bound to me. He likes looking at me, even with my nose in this hideous state. He likes kissing me. And although he doesn’t know it yet, he’s going to absolutely love—

“Baz?” Simon’s voice says.

I groan into the pillow. _Simon._

“Baz?” It’s outside. He’s knocking. “Baz, are you awake?”

_Fucking Crowley._

“One moment.”

I’m trying to work out whether I locked the door, whether he could accidentally walk in (unlikely – but so humiliating I have to at least consider the possibility). I’m also trying to work out whether I’m close enough to coming that I should finish myself off before finding out what he wants, but it’s too late.

Simon Snow is at my door. I don’t know why he’s there, but whatever he wants from me, I want him to have it. And I want to see him far more than I want to finish this disreputable affair with myself.

I spell my hand – and the bed – clean. Stash the lube in the bedside cabinet, and pull up my trousers and pants. The erection will have to stay, since it’s obviously not going anywhere, but I doubt Simon will notice. Since he didn’t notice last night. Or in the corridor earlier. Or if he did, he didn’t feel he had to do anything about it. (Which – I suppose – might ultimately be my problem.)

Anyway, it’s dark. Even if Simon were more observant, even if he was _looking_, he wouldn’t be able to see anything. There’s a fire in the grate and I turned on one of the table-lamps when I got in here, but it’s got a dark shade and doesn’t give out much light.

I pull open the door.

He’s standing in the hallway. Not in the suit from earlier (the one that matches my eyes, the one he got married in, the one I was imagining him fucking me in). Dressed for bed – which in Simon’s case means he’s wearing a t-shirt and Doctor Who boxer shorts.

(He showed up at my door like this, a few nights ago, demanding to come in. In his underwear. Utterly horrific. Well, it was then, anyway. I hadn’t even slipped away to feed, which I have at least managed to do today. Since, unlike Simon, I didn’t want to leave my husband alone on our wedding night.)

I don’t think he owns pyjamas. Or at least, I’ve never seen him in any that that weren’t provided by the school. I make a note to buy some for him, which is something I really should have done yesterday. Blue silk, I think. Or gold.

It’s not that he doesn’t look stunning as he is. He does. (I like the way the t-shirt cuts off high across his arms and the shorts cut across his thighs. A gold band gleams on his hand – I put that there. Honestly, even the bloody TARDIS motifs aren’t enough to put me off.) Or that he needs to change. Obviously he’s perfect the way he is.

I want to buy him pyjamas because I can. Because he’s mine to buy things for.

“What is it, Simon?”

I must look disgustingly fond.

“I, er, changed my mind.” His eyes dart to one side and then back to me. I’m staring at him. “Can I come in? Just to sleep.”

I nod – because I don’t trust myself to speak – and stand back to let him past.

He’s nervous. Even though we’ve slept in the same room before hundreds of times. Which is good, I’m nervous too – now. (I wasn’t earlier.) (I was _drunk _earlier; I’ve sobered up.) We can be nervous together in the same room. The same bed.

I watch as he sits on the edge of the mattress. He’s watching me, frowning.

“Did you fall asleep in your clothes?” 

Because, of course, I’m still wearing the suit I was wearing earlier. (Because I was wanking in it.) He _is _right to be confused, I’ve never slept in my clothes in my life.

“I hadn’t gone to bed yet,” I lie. 

I shrug the jacket off and hang it over the chair as he watches. It occurs to me as I do it that, unlike in our room at Watford, there’s no en suite in my bedroom and I’ve already let Simon in. I can either leave and get changed – or I can take my clothes off here. With Simon. Who just wants to go to sleep.

I tug the knot of my tie loose while I think about my next move.

“OK. Good,” Simon says. “I wasn’t – I wasn’t sure I should come. I didn’t want to wake you.”

That’s new. He’s never been so considerate before.

I probably shouldn’t read too much into it, but he’s also watching my fingers on my tie, watching as I pull it off completely. He keeps swallowing between words. (Which is extremely distracting.)

It’s obvious he’s freaking out at the idea that I’m taking my clothes off. He must have thought I’d already have changed before he got here. But he hasn’t run yet. (I don’t want to frighten him. He’s not a coward, he’s just new to this. He’s only just learned he’s gay. Or bi. I have to take it slowly.)

“You don’t have to worry about disturbing me,” I tell him. Which is exactly what I mean, but not something I’m sure Simon is ready to hear right now, so I add: “I don’t fall asleep quickly.”

“Yeah, I know,” Simon says. “But you might have been tired…”

He knows I wasn’t tired.

I sit on the sofa, next to the folded pair of pyjamas I laid out this morning – and remove my socks, the last safe bit of clothing. The last thing I can remove without being more naked than I’ve ever been in front of him. I pop my cufflinks off and let my wand slip out of my sleeve.

Then I start on my shirt buttons.

This time, Simon’s swallow is obscene.

“You should probably close your eyes,” I say, taking pity on him. “Or avert them.”

“Yeah.” Simon starts to twist his head but then seems to reconsider and turns back towards me. “I’d prefer not to, though. If you don’t mind.”

He likes looking at me. He told me he did and I believed him. It doesn’t mean I’m prepared for him essentially asking me to strip for him. This wasn’t part of my fantasies – although it probably should have been. I really have no idea how I’m going to calm down enough to sleep.

I clear my throat before I allow myself to speak, but my voice still sounds only vaguely presentable.

“I don’t mind.”

I finish unbuttoning my shirt and slide it off over my shoulders. Simon stares unapologetically at my chest, biting his lip (which is unfairly attractive), although his eyes come back to my face when I stand so I can take off my trousers.

I raise an eyebrow and he blushes. I think we’re both holding our breath. I undo the top button on my trousers and unzip my flies. When I let the trousers drop, pooling at my feet, Simon’s eyes snap downwards and I know that _this _time, he isn’t going to miss it.

“Baz…”

His ears are red, but he isn’t looking away. He’s staring right at the hard bulge in my boxers.

“I know. Just ignore it. I am.”

“_How?_” Simon says and I almost laugh at the outrage in his tone. On my behalf, I think.

“Practice.” I tug on my pyjama bottoms – which I think helps us both. Simon’s able to look back at my face anyway. “I have a very attractive roommate back at Watford.”

Simon scoffs. “I think I would have noticed, if you’d— Well, if you’d—”

I raise my eyebrows.

He shakes his head. “No way.”

I’m buttoning my pyjama shirt now, I’m practically decent now.

“I don’t know what’s so hard to believe,” I tell him as I push my wand back into my sleeve. “I already said I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

Simon’s eyes are wide. “You didn’t, actually.”

It’s the same look he gave me when I explained about the spell. About what it meant when I said I thought he hung the moon. A look that makes it clear he truly hasn’t considered any of this before. Like the idea of me being in love with him just doesn’t fit with the way he sees the world.

I had to look away from that expression last time. It hurt too much. That he didn’t know. Even though I’ve been hiding it from him. I still wanted him to know. To have known. To have wanted it enough to _hope_.

We haven’t talked about what I said; how he reacted. (Ironically, a wedding isn’t a good place to have a heart-to-heart conversation about your feelings with your spouse, even if Simon and I were the sort of people who did that. There are too many other people around, too many demands on your time.) We haven’t talked about how he didn’t say it back – which is fine. Understandable. He didn’t know he was gay until yesterday. And I am a colossal prick, even I admit it. I could understand if Simon fancied me without liking me.

I don’t look away this time; I just try and downplay my declaration as much as I can without making him think I don’t mean it. Just enough that he doesn’t think I’m mortified to have told him I love him three times, now, without hearing it returned. Or that I asked him to deflower me (what the fuck was I thinking?) and he said no.

“Well. I have.”

“How long?” Simon says.

I turn off the lamp. I don’t engage – I don’t want to snap at him, even though it’s been _years _and he didn’t notice.

“It’s not important.”

We haven’t talked about who sleeps on which side of the bed (we haven’t talked about a lot of things). I just climb into the left – the side of our room I sleep on, back in Watford – and Simon slides back onto the other side. I want to curl into him, kiss him – but it feels too awkward to kiss him now. Like it would be asking for something he’s already told me he isn’t ready to give. I’m still hard, for Crowley’s sake.

So, I turn over, away from him (I sleep on my side, anyway). “Goodnight, Simon.”

I feel the mattress moving behind me and then Simon’s arm wraps around my waist. (He’s so warm, I might not ever be cold again.) I can feel him pressing his nose into my hair, nuzzling it.

“I wish you’d said something,” he says.

“I _did _say something.”

His voice is soft; mine isn’t.

“Earlier. Not the literal day before our wedding. Which you _also_ didn’t tell me anything about, by the way.”

I shiver in his arms – because he’s pushed his hand under the edge of my pyjama shirt and he’s stroking my stomach.

Because I’ve always liked it when Simon talks about ‘us’. Things that were ‘ours’ – even when he was only describing the room we’d been assigned by a perverse magickal cauldron. It’s rather different – better – now he’s talking about the ceremony in which he pledged himself to me, in which we pledged ourselves to each other. **Till death do us part.** A vow Simon and I took long before we ever thought about getting married. (Before he did, anyway.)

“I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault,” Simon is saying now, breath warm against my ear, “what happened. It was _definitely _my fault. But you could have said something. It would have helped.”

He’s right. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Ultimately, I _wasn’t_ thinking.

I assumed that since the world had somehow arranged for me to marry the man I was in love with, since he allowed me to propose to him and actually kissed me before I had to kiss him, that it would all work out. It had to.

I assumed he’d know what to do. Or that Bunce, or Daphne, or my aunt, or _someone,_ would have told him the lines for the symbolic surrender. Or that he’d work them out. Somehow.

I’d been looking forward to it. To Simon making the traditional confession that there was nothing to fight about because I’d already defeated him.

Obviously not a realisation he came to on his own.

I’d like to be cross about it, but he’s pulled my hair back so he can kiss my neck over my shoulder. I’m shuddering at the touch of his lips on my skin.

“_Simon_—”

“You can’t still think I’m thick _and_ still expect me to guess what you’re thinking,” he says reasonably.

“I don’t think you’re thick.”

“You do.”

“Not all the time.”

It’s an effort to get the words out – Simon’s making it very hard to concentrate. I’m not sure whether my neck is sensitive because I’m a vampire or whether it just _is. _I’ve never met any other vampires, I’ve never asked them. All I know is that _this_ – Simon’s mouth, feather-light, below my jaw – is somehow going straight to my cock, which Simon’s hand is only inches away from.

“Not your head, anyway,” I say – because none of my blood is in my brain anymore and I can’t stop myself. “I haven’t seen the rest of you yet.”

Simon laughs behind me and I feel it against my skin. He’s still kissing the same spots, working out where his attacks are most effective, which areas of my neck when kissed make me twitch the most violently (bloody all of them, it feels like). I don’t want him to stop – I never want this to stop – but I don’t think I can take much more of this if this is all there is. If I’m supposed to go to sleep after this.

“You should really stop doing that if you don’t want to have sex with me.”

Simon’s hand stills – and I’m briefly very disappointed in myself, before he starts stroking me again. He presses up closer behind me and I feel something deliciously hard pressing between my buttocks.

“I think I might have changed my mind about that too,” he says hesitantly.

I swallow. 

“Is that OK?” he asks.

“Yes. It’s – grand.”

My voice is cracking and I actually whimper when Simon finally slides his hand down into my pyjamas and my pants. He doesn’t seem to know what to do once he’s in there, he’s just palming me, but it’s enough – to have his hand on me, it’s enough of a sign that he wants this. That I don’t need to ask him if he’s sure. He is. He’s squeezing my cock in his fucking hand, for Crowley’s sake.

“Baz?” Simon prompts.

I pull my wand out of my sleeve and leave it on the bedside table. Then I roll over onto my other side so we’re facing each other again and lean into him so he can kiss me properly. Which he does – only breaking away from me when I tug his t-shirt over his head. Then he drags me back into another kiss as I run my hands up his naked back and breathe him in. (He smells like smoke. And crackling. Rich. Heady.) I’m swooning, although I’m lying down, so he doesn’t notice. I’m trying to kiss every one of the moles on his face without spending too long away from his lips. He’s trying to get my trousers and pants off with limited success (the elastic’s too tight – I’ve got an erection and there’s not enough space between us).

I pull away because it’s getting embarrassing. “Let me.”

“I can do it.”

“It’s fine, Simon.”

“All right. Well, pull the curtains open while you’re up,” he says as I pull my shirt over my head.

I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.”

“Piss off.” But he’s grinning. “We’re three floors up – no one’s going to see. I just want to look at you in the moonlight.”

I don’t think I’ll ever get over him saying he wants to look at me.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the look on his face when he’s looking at me like this.

And he wants to look at me in the moonlight that I gave him. Because that meant something to him. 

I pull the curtain back.

He stares at me – hungrily this time – as I take off the pyjama bottoms I just put on in front of him and my pants. He’s managed to take his own off while I was faffing with the curtain, which means Simon Snow is naked in my bed. I can see his – not especially thick – cock in the moonlight. He’s hard. He’s hard and looking at me. Simon Snow is my husband and he’s aroused and naked in my bed (I could kiss every one of his moles if I wanted to; I do want to, but later) and he’s staring at me the way I’ve only seen him look at a plate of buttered scones. The air is rippling softly with his magic.

“Fuck_ me_,” he murmurs as I straighten up. Then he colours when he realises what he’s said, which is nothing to how I feel. “Er, probably not literally. I mean—”

“I understand, Simon.”

“No, I just meant I can’t believe I get to see this,” he says as I return to the bed. Every step closer to him takes me deeper into the aura of his magic, which is everywhere right now, although less sticky than usual. (Will it always be this strong when he’s aroused? I’m going to lose my mind.) (And I definitely didn’t need help with that.) Smokey and intoxicating. 

He’s sitting in the centre of the mattress, but shunts closer to the edge as I get closer. He’s smiling, even though he’s still blushing. (Blushing _and _aroused.) And he draws me down into his lap with gentle hands in my hair.

“Honestly, I still can’t believe you chose _me_ to do this with.”

Then he kisses me again, tugging me back with him. His body underneath mine, as though he’s even protecting me from the softness of the bed. All of his movement is soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate tearing at each other I was imagining.

I could tell him I _didn’t_ choose him. That the Mage and the Old Families organised the whole thing, that I had nothing to do with any of this – even though he knows I did. (Bloody Fiona couldn’t keep her mouth shut.) But I did choose him. Or I would have done, if I’d ever thought for a single moment that I might stand a chance.

I chose him, and he’s mine, and he’s right – I could have said something much sooner. I could have had this much sooner.

So, I tell him the truth, even though it’s embarrassing. Even though he might reject me again. Even though he probably _will_ reject me again. (It’s too much. He’s only just realised he’s gay. What I want is _very gay._) But Simon’s right. And Simon’s my husband. I should be able to ask my husband for what I want.

“Fuck me.” I’m whispering against his lips. Which is idiotic – I want him to hear me. But being around Simon has always made me behave like an idiot. And apparently, I can’t make my voice go any louder. “Literally. Please.”

“How?”

Simon’s whispering too.

I think about rolling my eyes; I don’t. (He hasn’t said no. '_How?' _isn’t '_no_.' It’s practically a yes, I think. It’s just – the Simon in my imagination knew how to do this too. Without prompting. He knew what I wanted. What _he_ wanted.)

I push him away from me enough that I can reach over into the bedside cabinet. Simon rolls off me, eyeing the lubricant warily as I pull it out. But he lets me squeeze some into his palm.

“Fingers,” I say, trying to steady my voice. It’s still too quiet. I clear my throat. “First. Until there’s enough space. After that it should be obvious.”

“Have you done this before?” Simon says as I turn onto my front.

This time I do roll my eyes, although the effect is ruined as he can’t see my face.

“No.”

“Then how do you know you’ll like it?”

Because I’ve been masturbating to the thought of you screwing me for the last two years, Simon. The last time was ten minutes ago.

“I just do,” I tell him. 

“Well, you have to tell me if you don’t like it,” Simon says stubbornly.

“Fine,” I say – and then he slides two of his fingers (fuck, _two_ already) all the way into me, right up the knuckles.

I don’t think it would have worked at all, if I hadn’t already started this for myself, but as it is, it’s grand. Simon’s fingers aren’t as long as mine, but he doesn’t have to bend his arm around his own waist. My hands clench in the sheets as he draws his hand back and presses in again slickly. I’m shuddering already.

“I’m guessing that’s good?” Simon says.

He’s right.

It’s good. He’s also rubbing his free hand over my side, like he was rubbing my stomach earlier (it’s so good) and I love it. Almost as much as I love the press of his fingers inside me. As much as I love him.

“_More_,” I pant and Simon obligingly pushes another finger in beside the others. Three fingers. Simon’s fingers stretching and flexing inside me. It’s heaven.

“Good?” Simon asks again and I nod dumbly into the pillow. It’s really fucking good. I’m trying not to push back into him or rub myself off against the bed – I don’t want to come from this. I want to still be hard when he fucks me.

Crowley, he’s actually going to do it, isn’t he? It’s really happening. Simon Snow is fingering me now on my instructions. He’s going to fuck me. At last.

_At last._

I let out what can only be described as a sob – whether at the idea of what’s happening, or what will happen, or because Simon has hit somewhere particularly good inside me, I’m not entirely sure. But the sound makes Simon draw his hand back completely.

“I said I’d tell you if I didn’t like it,” I snarl over my shoulder.

Which is wrong, I know. I should be grateful. (And I _am _grateful. Drowning in gratitude, in fact. Heady with air-loss and gratitude.) The problem is I want him too much – I can’t control myself around him right now, if I ever could. I’m exposed, and I hate that.

But Simon’s dry hand is back on my hip, stroking me soothingly. He isn’t angry.

“I know,” he says. “I just – want to look at you.” (I’m definitely never getting over him saying it.) “Can you turn over?”

I roll over onto my back. It’s going to be more difficult for us to do the next part, but I’ll manage. _We’ll_ manage. And obviously, I want to look at Simon just as much as he wants to look at me. I just didn’t think I’d be allowed to.

I spell his hand clean for him and then raise both of mine to cradle his face as he stretches out over me. I feel his cock pressing against mine as he kisses me. My hips jerk and this time it’s Simon who groans into my mouth as I hook one of my legs over his waist and tug his arse down into me. He bites at my chin.

“Obvious part next, yeah?” he says breathily – and I nod into another kiss as he fumbles with the lube again. It would probably be easier for him if I relaxed my leg and let him go, but as he struggles, he’s grinding the two of us together, so I’m not going to let him go.

“_Fuck_,” Simon says into my jaw. And the feeling of his magic intensifies. “Baz.”

His wet hand slides between us, coating me as much as himself in the lubricant.

“_Crowley_,” I gasp.

He’s distracting me, but I’m trying to find a pillow I don’t like that much to put under myself. Once I have one (it’s all right, an acceptable print – but I don’t like any pillow enough to stop this), I do let him go so I can raise my hips. Simon pushes up on his hands to give me room and gives his cock another stroke to get it slicker. My own cock twitches against my stomach as I watch him do it.

Crowley, I want him.

I want him and I want him inside me. And we’re so close.

He settles back between my legs, lower on my body this time, and then pushes forward. I feel the wet tip of his cock slide against my arse. And I start laughing before I can help it. I’m giddy with need.

“Missed.”

“Fuck you,” Simon says breathlessly. “You’re such a dick.”

But he’s laughing too.

“It’s like you don’t want to be deflowered,” he tells me.

I shove him away (idiot – I obviously don’t want to be reminded of that), but he’s leaning up anyway, resting all his weight on one hand. He reaches down for his cock with the other, guiding it into position. The blunt head of it presses briefly against my entrance and then Simon shunts his hips forward again and I growl as he forces himself in.

Fuck.

_Fucking fuck._

Neither of us are laughing now. Simon’s weight is pressing down on my cock and he’s pushing slowly into me and I can barely breathe it’s so much and so good.

“_Fuck_,” Simon says out loud as I hook my leg over him again. I want to be sure he can’t get away. (I doubt he’s regretting this, not if it feels even half as good to be him as it does to be me right now. But I’m not taking the risk.) He’s dropped his forehead next to my chin and his hips are twitching, making his cock seem to shudder inside me. “This is – a lot.”

I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak right now. He’s right. It’s a lot – Simon Snow buried in me, balls deep; crushing the air out of me – but I’ve always wanted more. More than I was given. More than I thought I could have. Until now. This week with Simon has been full of moments like this. Moments in which I feel I’ve been given far more than I deserved (I don’t deserve him) or thought possible.

“Fuck,” Simon says again. “I can’t believe I tried to go to sleep.”

I let myself laugh at that (because it’s funny, now. Because he didn’t) and he tries to crane his neck up enough to kiss me. To get me to shut up, I assume. I’m too tall, though. Or he isn’t tall enough. I have to push myself upwards to make it work, curling into him, gripping the back of his neck with my free hand, as his cock anchors me in place against the bed. Simon’s tongue pushes deep into my mouth, before I fall back.

He props himself above me again. Sweeps my hair back out of my face with one of his hands. I let my eyelashes drop and lean into it.

“You look exactly like you did yesterday,” Simon says to me. “When I gave you my magic.”

I can imagine that. Drawing on Simon’s magic felt like being high. Like being warmed through by divine fire until all the pain I’d ever felt was burned away. (Temporarily, anyway.) Having him stroke my cheek while he’s buried inside me is the same level of religious experience. I probably look just as overwhelmed.

“So fucking lovely,” Simon breathes.

I press my face into his palm, so he won’t see me grinning like an absolute idiot.

Simon huffs. “Baz, your nose looks _fine_.”

I wasn’t even thinking about my nose (how could I be? I’m losing my virginity to Simon bloody Snow and he thinks I’m lovely) but I’m glad it looks fine. The low lighting is probably helping.

“No thanks to you.”

“I know, I’m an idiot.” Simon’s nuzzling at my neck. “I’m going to start moving. OK?”

I start to nod again, but I don’t want there to be any ambiguity about this. What I want. 

I wet my lips. “Yes. You should do that.”

He pushes in further before he draws back. I feel the head of his cock almost slip out, stretching me at its widest point, and then he’s sinking back in as deeply as he can. He’s staring right at me as he does all of this. Holding my eyes with his. Like he can’t look away. Like he wants to see what this is doing to me. It’s terrifying. And it’s wonderful, at the same time. Because he’s looking at me the way he looked at the night sky yesterday. Like this is magic, what he and I are doing together.

It is.

Overwhelming, impossible magic, like the kind only Simon Snow could possibly hope to wield.

The same kind of overwhelming, impossible magic that is rippling in the air around us. I’m light-headed with it, though Simon barely seems to notice. His eyes are still bright, blue – not flooded with pupil – and focused on me as though I’m the centre of the fucking universe.

I’m just breathing his name now, like it’s his name I need to take into my lungs to survive. “_Simon.”_

_“Yes,”_ Simon breathes back.

Not the most eloquent of conversations, but probably the best one I’ve ever had, particularly when Simon finally gets the angle exactly right and connects with what I assume is my prostate and I whimper raggedly. 

“I’ve got you,” he tells me.

“Crowley. _Simon_.”

“I’ve got you now.”

He does. And it’s perfect. More than perfect. I’m gasping, clenching my hands in the muscles of his shoulder. I’m his and he’s got me.

“Is it too much?” Simon asks.

I roll my head against the pillow in a rough approximation of _No. _It’s not too much.

“_Faster_,” I hear myself whisper – because even now apparently, even when it’s perfect, I _do _actually still want more. Somehow. Simon chuckles weakly, but his hips speed up. I can practically feel his heartrate following, it’s so loud. (Is _that _a vampire thing?) I can hear it even over the creaking of the bed, and my panting and his tortured breathing, and the wet noise that is Simon’s cock sliding in and out of my arse. Into me.

The magic – Simon’s magic – is everywhere. Rolling over me in waves. I’m stupid with it, or maybe this is just what being shagged senseless by Simon Snow always feels like. It could be, I’m looking forward to finding out.

My mouth tastes like smoke.

“_Fuck, _yes.”

I let my head drop back and his lips fasten on my neck as he continues to pound into me. Relentless. Overwhelming. The way I always thought Simon Snow would fuck. He’s getting the right spot almost every time now and I’m grinding into it.

“Yes. That’s it, Simon. That’s it.”

And then the glorious bastard finally wraps his hand around my cock.

I can barely think. I just know I’m about to come and that Simon is pumping my cock in his hand in the small gap between my stomach and his, and thrusting into my arse, and crooning the words _fuck _and _yes _and _Baz, this is so good _against my neck.

I hope I’m not crying. I can’t tell.

“Crowley. _Simon_—”

“So close,” he tells me. And I’m not sure whether he means he is or if he’s asking if I am, but I _definitely_ am.

I can feel him over me and in me and I’m breathing in his magic, I don’t even know if he’s pushing it into me or if it just feels like he is, but it feels like I’m full and powerful. Like if I grabbed my wand, I could cast poetry – _hard _poetry, Modernist wank – if I could think of any.

Instead I just come over his hand and my stomach. Pressing my head back into the bed as the delicious shuddering wave of it washes over me like Simon’s magic as I clench around him. I’m making some sort of terrible, guttural, shuddering moaning sound, like a fucking wraith, but it’s possible Simon doesn’t mind if the spasming in his hips means anything.

He’s taken his hand away from my cock now and the mess of semen between us. He’s just using both his hands to steady himself against my shoulders as he drives back into me. Harder than ever. I think it would hurt, normally (I don’t know, I’ve never continued past the point of coming when I’ve done this on my own), but Simon’s magic is still keeping me loose and pliant. Nothing hurts.

If anything, it actually feels like I’m headed for another orgasm, which should be impossible. Warmth rising through me from my stomach up through my chest, like the sun has been pushed inside me and is trying to get back to the sky.

I think it’s Simon’s. I think I can feel his orgasm, I think he’s giving it to me. I can feel his fingernails digging into my shoulders. I can feel _him. _His fire licking up through my body, setting me alight. I should be crumbling to ash right about now, but instead I can feel him hard up against me. Stretched over my body. His skin is damp now with exertion and rubbing off on me, and the movement of his stomach is smearing come over both of us. It’s disgusting. Exhilarating. 

So much. So warm.

_Simon Snow hung the sun, _I think giddily. _Simon Snow. _

“So close,” Simon repeats. “So—” He sounds desperate. Overwhelmed. He sobs as I clench around him again, trying to push him over. “Fuck. Yes. _Baz_, I’m so—”

He gasps and all the magic in the air around us seems to ignite.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see stars. Everywhere. And for a moment, the moon, outlined crisply against my eyelids. I’m flooded with heat and light.

And then I’m crashing back down to Earth, to bed. Absolutely wrecked.

And I’m cold.

And Simon is gone.

I’m cold because Simon is gone

My brain still isn’t working properly. (Simon can’t be gone; he was just here. I didn’t even feel him pull out.) I roll onto my side. Expecting to be able to roll into the warmth of his sweaty body, but he’s actually _gone. _He isn’t in the bed. He isn’t in the _room. _He’s taken all of the heat in the room with him.

“Simon!”

Shouting his name is pointless, of course, but I’m not sure what else to do. I’m panicking. Only a month ago, I watched Simon and Penelope Bunce disappear just a few feet away from me. I found out later they’d been taken by the Humdrum – at the time I thought Bunce had just removed him to stop him punching me for seducing his girlfriend. I thought it was _funny_.

It isn’t funny.

I’m supposed to help him fight the Humdrum. That’s what all this was about. That was the deal. That was what I had to promise to get Simon to marry me.

I’m supposed to _help._

At least I’m out of bed now. At least I’m doing _something –_ snatching my pyjamas up from the floor and pulling them on. My wand is by the bedside table and I realise as I grab it (and spell myself clean) that I _can_ still feel Simon’s magic. It’s just not in the room anymore.

It’s outside, past the window. Which I open, leaning out into the night air. Definitely Simon. That’s a good sign. (At least, I think that’s a good sign.) If the Humdrum has taken him, at least he hasn’t taken him _far. _

That means I don’t need to bother casting a finding spell. I just climb up onto the window ledge and step off the edge, casting “**_Float like a butterfly_**_” _to slow my fall, even though it’s a waste of magic. I could have taken the stairs. But I also really couldn’t have done. It would have taken too long. And I have to get to my husband now.

The grass is damp beneath my bare feet when I hit the ground, but I don’t care. At least it's not raining. I just start running in the direction of Simon’s magic, back towards the main road.

“_Simon_!”

I’m running like a vampire. (Obviously, I _am _a vampire, but right now I’m not holding back, which I do usually even when we really need to win a match. I’m just running as fast I as I physically can across the damp lawn.)

“Simon! Answer me for fuck’s sake.”

And then he does. I hear him before I see him – he’s shouting my name too – and then I _do _see him. Wrapped in a gold and black patterned blanket I don’t recognise. Stumbling towards me through a haze of his own angry, smoky magic.

“Baz!”

We collide with each other, Simon pulling me into a fierce, desperate kiss as his magic drops down to a manageable level. He’s gripping me tightly. I’m trying not to crush him with my unnatural strength, but I want to hold onto him too and it hurts to hold back. I’m not letting him go again.

“I thought the Humdrum had you,” I tell him between breathless kisses.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “Me too.”

“Is he here?”

Simon shakes his head. “I think I just went off.”

“Crowley.”

“I ended up down by the pond.”

And then we’re both laughing, clinging to each other. I want to be sure he’s still there. He keeps kissing me, like he wants to be sure of me as well. I think he’s as relieved as I am, even though I was the one who lost _him._

I remember what he said when he was above me and in me – _“I’ve got you” – _and shiver.

“This better not happen every time we try and have sex,” I tell him.

“Merlin,” Simon says. “Can you imagine?”

“Unfortunately, I can.”

I can also imagine exactly how little this ridiculous inconvenience would put me off. (Not at all, in other words.)

“Shit,” Simon says. “Sorry. You must be freezing.”

He wraps the blanket around my shoulders. It’s soft and as warm as Simon. I let myself smile at him.

“Should I ask where you got this from?”

It’s definitely not one of mine – although it looks like something I _would _own. Or would like to own. It’s made of silk and, close up, it’s clearly a Versace pattern. The gold sets off Simon’s hair.

“Er. Harrods, I think,” Simon says. “I’m not sure. I was cold and it appeared. My magic does that sometimes. When there’s a lot of it.”

I actually can’t smell his magic anymore. It’s as though seeing me, kissing me, was enough to calm him down. (Or to reassure him anyway; I think we’re both still a little hysterical.)

Strangely, he doesn’t smell like he’s just gone off, either. Usually he smells burnt, but right now he just smells like Simon. And slightly like sweat and another strong, salty smell that I suspect is my come.

“You mean you stole this blanket. With magic.”

“I’ll take it back,” Simon protests. “I don’t even like it.”

“You will not.”

“Well, it’s your fault if I get arrested,” Simon grumbles but he doesn’t seem too upset.

He’s still kissing me. Under the moonlight. The star-speckled sky. He’s naked under the blanket. I’ve got my arms wrapped around his waist; his arms are around my shoulders, drawing me into his warmth.

It’s perfect. Another perfect moment. And I know there are more in my future.

(I can already imagine how good it will feel to carry him back up to our window **on** **Love’s light wings**. A spell I’ve never used, but one that will certainly work since I’ve only fallen harder for him since he kissed me that first time. It’s as though Simon’s magic planned it for me – the chance to carry him over the threshold.)

It’s perfect, even if none of this would have happened if not for the War. And even if this particular moment, this kiss, is only happening because Simon Snow can’t control himself and went off in the middle of an orgasm.

I’m not entirely sure that _is_ what happened, though.

I know Simon thinks it is, but Simon has never understood his magic. (Or indeed _magic, _full stop. I’m sure he hasn’t even wondered if it was our wedding vows kicking in. It definitely _isn’t_. But the Roommate’s Anathema whisks you out of the school if you hurt your roommate and this is roughly the same kind of spell. I would have considered it as a possibility, if I hadn't known absolutely that he hadn’t hurt me.)

I’ve been around him before when he’s gone off. (Largely because I made it happen.) It doesn’t feel – or smell – like this. And nothing’s on fire, which is fairly unusual.

_Something_ happened, I don’t dispute that – but I think it was something new. 

I think perhaps he _thought _he was going to go off. And that he didn’t want to. Go off in my house. While we were wrapped around each other, while he was in me. I think he might have taken himself away – to the place I told him I loved him – because he couldn’t risk something happening to me. And not because of the Vow.

Because he didn’t want anything to happen to me. 

Simon’s always protected me before, even when we were enemies. He shielded me, even when I set a chimera on him. It’s possible that wasn’t enough for him this time. That he panicked.

I’m not sure what to think about that possibility. About what it might mean.

Because this – and the way he looked at me while we were in bed together, and the way he ran towards me across the grass, the way he grabbed onto me and held me – it all feels like it means something. Like something more than obligation, obsession, and Simon liking to look at me.

It feels like he might love me.

I want to ask him if he does. (It wasn't long ago that Simon told me we should just tell each other things, obvious things. This _should _be obvious.) But I honestly don’t think Simon knows yet. I’m going to have to be patient. I’m going to have to hope I'm right, even if it’s painful.

This is enough for now. More than enough.

I let Simon kiss me until I catch him yawning into my mouth. Then I slip out of the blanket, so he can wrap it around himself in case we meet my father, and take his hand in mine.

“Come on,” I tell him as I tug him towards the house. “Let’s go back to bed.”


End file.
